


the scorch in my self-denials

by plethora



Category: History Boys - All Media Types
Genre: First Time, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-16
Updated: 2015-05-16
Packaged: 2018-03-30 18:10:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3946633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plethora/pseuds/plethora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wine is drunk, kisses are had, and Scripps maybe has to rethink a few things. [Title and first verse are both from the works of Eavan Boland]</p>
            </blockquote>





	the scorch in my self-denials

_Sex and history and skin and bone,_

_and the opression of a sunday afternoon,_

_bells called the faithful to devotion_

 

Scripps thinks of that when he's propped up in Posner's bed and Posner has his head in his lap, arms around his hips. Clinging like he's drowning. The verse seems oddly fitting, given he can hear the bells ringing after service and he's here, agonising over whether to disturb David. He should probably start calling him David now they've-done _that –_ but - it doesn't fit right in his head. It was Posner that came round with his two bottles of shit wine ( _on offer! h_ e'd crowed) and kissed him when they were half way through the second, mouth soft and pink and unsure. Fingers pushing under Scripps' jumper and skittering over his ribs and – he'd flinched and laughed and twisted. Not pulled away. Kept kissing him and led him into his own bed and held tight like he'd slip through his fingers if not. 

 

And it wasn't even as though they'd done anything. Nothing  _properly queer_ Scripps thinks and chastises himself for the thought. Does this somehow break his vow of chastity? Does kissing count? He's kissed one of his best friends and is disturbed by how much he likes cuddling up in bed on a sunday morning with him. If there's some kind of scale of queerness, this is probably fairly high up there. 

 

Dakin probably wouldn't have this crisis, he thinks. Dakin would roll with it.  _Sure, I kissed him, sure, I got a blowjob. Who cares._ Not that Scripps got a blowjob.  _Cuddling_ and grinding and then passing out. What does it even count for? Is  _this_ his first kiss? A lopsided and nervous smooch with a kid he's grown up with? 

 

Yet.

 

He's so warm. Posner puts heat out like a furnace and his hair is soft and smoothed back from his forehead. It's...nice. It's really nice to wake up being held. He wriggles onto his side and his arm hovers. Should he hold Posner back? He doesn't want to wake him, but there's nowhere else to put his arm.

 

He lowers it anyway, and fuck, Posner snuggles into his chest, nose smooshed up against his breastbone. He's still dead to the world and. Well. Whatever crisis Scripps is having – and it definitely is a fucking crisis – he doesn't want this to stop just yet.

 

No, for now, he just exhales slowly and closes his eyes. This is the kind of thing poets write about. Ill advised trysts and wine and hungover mornings ripe with potential. He won't go back to sleep, but he'll take this moment of fragile contentment and hold onto it.

 

He still feels like a coward, though.

 


End file.
